


Inhale, Pause, (Lose Your Mind), Exhale

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fisting, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22936585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: Jaskier wants Geralt inside him. His tongue. His fingers. His cock.His whole hand.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 68
Kudos: 1036
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	Inhale, Pause, (Lose Your Mind), Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> The idea and summary for this fic were taken from the Witcher kinkmeme over on Dreamwidth, because I ditched shame at the train platform when I bought my first class ticket to Hell.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asks.

Because _Jaskier’s_ the one who might not be sure about this. Right. Of course. _Jaskier_ was the one who had to be talked into doing this, the one who wanted to do a bunch of research (research that consisted of finding a reputable brothel and grilling the whores for information), the one who has been teasing about this for weeks.

Right. Jaskier’s the one who’s nervous about this.

He pulls on the lovely cuffs that Geralt _insisted_ on getting (even though Jaskier would’ve been perfectly fine with just some silk ties, honestly, he’s made do with much worse), testing them. The inner fur lining is nice and soft against his wrists, and the cuffs are tight, but not enough to be discomforting. He can’t lower his arms or even move them very much, but that’s fine. That’s how it needs to be for this.

“I’m sure,” he purrs, wiggling his hips against the covers. They’re in a proper bedroom for this, because Geralt insisted upon it, which is why they even have a headboard for Geralt to thread the links of the cuffs through. A very generous noble for whom Jaskier has played many a time is hosting a ball (it’s spring, so everyone and their mistress is hosting a ball) and so they have rather nice accommodations for the next few days, in exchange for Jaskier performing.

Geralt runs an assessing eye over Jaskier’s frame, and then bends down, lightly kissing Jaskier’s shoulder. “All right, then.”

Jaskier feels like he might shake apart with anticipation. He’s begged for this, imagined it so many times, that he’s lost track, all of it blurring together into this thick slurry of _need_. But he’s pretty sure the first time he wanted this was when he saw Geralt sharpening his sword, his hands slick with oil, his hand in a fist as he slid the whetstone down the side of the blade.

Oh, how he’d touched himself that night, imagining that hand inside of him. It wasn’t the first time he’d fantasized about Geralt fucking him, far from it, but now he wanted more than just his fingers or that cock, he wanted his _fist_. He wanted to feel so full he was crying with it, overstimulated, stuffed, _used_.

And now he’s finally going to get it.

Geralt’s concern is very sweet, and Jaskier appreciates it. Geralt is sweet in general, if one knows how to look for the signs, and Jaskier definitely knows how by now. Geralt looks out for him. He holds Jaskier tight at night, and lets Jaskier join him in the bath and lets Jaskier wash his hair and dress his wounds and massage him, and he buys Jaskier little presents and gives Jaskier his coat when it’s cold and once even carried Jaskier through a flooded area of town so that Jaskier wouldn’t get his new fancy outfit wet.

But right now, he doesn’t want Geralt to be sweet. He wants Geralt to shove that fucking huge, fucking gorgeous fist inside of him and fuck him with it until Jaskier chokes and sobs and screams with it.

Geralt seems determined to take his time, however. He starts by kissing along Jaskier’s neck, one of his favorite places (both to scent and to mark)—it’s one of Jaskier’s most sensitive spots as well and he knows it, damn it. Geralt is thorough, no inch of Jaskier’s skin left unmarked by his mouth and the hint of stubble. He rubs his roughened cheek against Jaskier’s throat and _growls_ , like a wolf scenting a mate, and Jaskier arches up, keening. His ankles are cuffed as well, and he knows it’s for his own good, so that he won’t thrash and hurt himself, but gods above he wishes he could move.

“All in good time,” Geralt whispers. His voice is hot and dark like coffee, scraped up from the bottom of his throat, and a shiver travels the entire length of Jaskier’s spine.

Geralt always takes care of him. He’ll try and be patient.

With a huff of amusement, Geralt goes back to work. He kisses Jaskier’s throat, his collarbones, his hands massaging Jaskier’s thighs open, the heels of them giving that firm, rolling pressure that works all the kinks out of Jaskier’s body and makes him a moaning pile of putty. The first tug of Geralt’s teeth around his nipples is a shock, and the second is welcome, making him gasp and arch up, seeking out more. Geralt’s hand moves up to stroke Jaskier’s stomach, soothing up, even as he licks at Jaskier’s other nipple before sealing his mouth around it and sucking.

“You ruthless tease.” He means for it to be a snap, but it comes out breathy and wanton.

“I told you,” Geralt replies, his nails dragging through the thatch of course public hair just above Jaskier’s cock, “we do this my way, or not at all.”

 _And I like to savor you._ This last bit goes unspoken, but it is understood. Geralt never has to say it. Jaskier knows, in how Geralt takes his time, in how Geralt kisses him for hours afterwards until they’re both drunk with it, in how Geralt will fuck him slow and sure, watching Jaskier’s face intently the entire time. Jaskier once proclaimed to a lover that he could never receive enough kisses to satisfy him, but oh, Geralt comes rather close.

Speaking of kisses, Geralt moves up to do so properly now, his lips firm and his tongue demanding, and Jaskier opens for him immediately. Geralt’s hands shift on him, spreading his thighs wide, bypassing his hard cock in favor of grabbing the open jar of oil that sits ready nearby.

Jaskier can hear it, _fuck_ , he can _hear_ Geralt’s fingers getting slick, and those are going to be inside him, all of it’s going to be inside him, and it’s so much, and it’s going to be more soon, and he moans around Geralt’s tongue.

Geralt’s first finger is nothing. Jaskier can take a single finger easily, sucks him in, clenches greedily around it. Geralt knows Jaskier’s body intimately by now and can curl his finger in precisely the right way, the one that just barely avoids Jaskier’s prostate but still has that angle that drives Jaskier to the edges of madness.

He whimpers, how could he not, and Geralt chuckles, keeping his pace steady but slower than usual. He keeps Jaskier on that one finger for what feels like ages, until Jaskier is hard as a rock and shoving himself back onto it, begging Geralt with garbled words for more.

Geralt keeps kissing him through it, literally stealing the words from Jaskier’s mouth, like Jaskier’s pleas are a feast and Geralt is a gluttonous royal.

At last Geralt pulls back, his eyes gleaming like a cat’s, positively wicked. He brings his free hand up, curls his palm around Jaskier’s cheek, his thumb pressed against the side of Jaskier’s nose. It’s such a fond gesture that Jaskier swears he falls in love all over again (which is perfectly all right, Jaskier falls in love with Geralt all over again at least once a day).

Geralt kisses him again, but this time on the sternum, moving slowly down his body, his finger ever-present inside of him, always moving. Jaskier knows what Geralt’s going to do before Geralt even gets there, knows it in the way that Geralt licks at the planes of his stomach, scrapes his teeth along Jaskier’s hip. Then Geralt’s mouth is _there_ , his tongue is pushing in alongside his finger, and Jaskier fucking _melts_.

It’s thorough and deliberate, not the usual sloppy job that Geralt does (the kind he knows that Jaskier likes, because Jaskier likes being fucking filthy), and Jaskier feels like Geralt’s slowly turning his bones into liquid with every swipe and twist of his tongue.

Jaskier’s toes curl, his back arching, as Geralt adds another finger like it’s nothing, without even a hitch in his breath. Witchers can hold their breath for a great long while, as a part of their training, it’s how he’s survived so many drowners, and Geralt’s using that ability to the max now as he eats Jaskier out with absolute determination. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , those thick, long fingers are twisting in and out of him and soon he’s going to have more but it’s not enough just yet and he’s so tense and so relaxed at the same time and he needs—

“Shh,” Geralt soothes, pulling his mouth away and licking a filthy stripe up the underside of Jaskier’s cock. He adds a third finger at last, and now, _now_ he’s aiming for the prostate, merciless but still not speeding up.

It’s good, and he’s used to three fingers, his body knows this drill by now, it’s not going to take much of anything to convince him to come. And that’s what he wants, or maybe not, he’d much rather wait and come with Geralt’s fist inside of him, he wants to come then, please… “Please,” he manages to choke out, but that’s it, that’s all he has, and Geralt _speeds up_.

The words, his very breath, are all jammed up in his throat and he can’t, he can’t, but then—then Geralt’s fingers shift, and on his next thrust, there’s a fourth finger in among them. It’s so quick and smooth (Geralt’s entire hand, and all the bed sheets beneath them, must be absolutely covered in oil by now) that it’s nothing at all to take it, and Jaskier’s head falls back onto the bed. He can barely even breathe, each breath far too shallow, but if he dies here like this it’s all right. He doesn’t mind in the slightest.

Geralt’s fingers shift again, and he slows down, and then—then it’s all pushing inside of him. All five.

Jaskier chokes.

For a wild second his body seizes up and he panics instinctively, wondering how it could possibly fit, wondering if once again he’s bitten off more than he can chew—but he forces himself to inhale, to hold it, and to exhale, and as he breathes out, Geralt pushes _in_ , knuckles rubbing up right against him, and oh, _oh_ it’s so full and fucking _perfect_ , and Jaskier comes violently all over his stomach.

Geralt moves his fist in small, certain movements, inside of him up to the fucking wrist, drawing out the orgasm as he rubs insistently against—against everywhere, really. There is no place inside of him that Geralt is not touching. Jaskier swears he can feel Geralt’s fingertips against his fluttering swallowtail heart. He’s not sure if he’s coming down from his orgasm or if it’s still ongoing, his entire body shivering, twitching, he feels so _full_ and it’s the best feeling in the world. His mind is a low buzz, a sweet white hum that leaves no room for thoughts or babbling. He’s just staring blankly at the ceiling, his mouth open, gasping and sucking in air as Geralt continues to give him the gentlest gods-damned fist fucking he thinks anyone’s ever possibly received.

He has no idea how long this goes on for. It feels like an eternity, and yet it also feels like the span of one held breath. He’s stuffed, he can’t possibly move on his own, completely at Geralt’s mercy, speared on that large hand, and fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing. This hand has wielded a blade, cast powerful spells, crushed throats. It’s also stroked through Jaskier’s hair, yanked Jaskier out of danger, and tenderly rubbed salve into Jaskier’s wounds (few and far between as those are, which is all thanks to Geralt as well). He feels powerful, and yet at Geralt’s mercy, all at once. It’s intoxicating. He thinks he might be drunk.

Geralt’s eyes are intense and unwavering as he gazes on Jaskier’s face, watching every movement and twitch of Jaskier’s fingers as he starts to speed up, move a little more—not enough to hurt, but enough for it to really be called a proper fucking. Jaskier feels tears leak out of his eyes as it rubs against every part of him, but especially his prostate, and he can feel himself starting to get hard again without even trying.

A sob gets caught in his throat. It’s so much, _too_ much, but Geralt knows Jaskier’s limits better than even Jaskier does, and he makes soothing noises (which are rather similar to the noises he makes to soothe Roach, actually) as he fucks him right up to the edge again.

“Geralt.” His voice breaks the name in half. “Fuck…”

It takes him another moment to realize that Geralt’s fucking him enough that his hand is moving farther out, until Geralt’s knuckles catch on the rim of his entrance, fucking in and out, and that’s like a whole new shot of lightning to his system and Jaskier _screams_ , squeezing his eyes shut, feeling like someone ripped him open and he’s thanking them for it.

His eyes fly open, his legs shaking uncontrollably, as he feels the bed move. There’s a new mess on his stomach and his cock is soft and he realizes, oh, he came. That’s what that was.

Geralt’s leveraged himself up farther on the mattress, his thumb wiping away the tears on Jaskier’s cheeks, and Jaskier feels oddly bereft.

He’s down to three fingers, he realizes. That’s why. Geralt must’ve used his orgasm to slide the other two fingers out, to take him back to something more familiar.

Geralt kisses him softly, the kind of kiss that requires no real work on Jaskier’s part, and slides another finger out. His other hand moves down and massages Jaskier’s stomach, which is something Jaskier didn’t even know he needed until he gets it and then he’s moaning with how good it feels, how much it _grounds_ him.

At last, Geralt slides the last two fingers out, still massaging gently. Jaskier’s eyelids feel heavy.

“Good?” Geralt asks, his arm moving around to slide underneath Jaskier’s lower back, cradling him. His gaze is searching Jaskier for signs of discomfort. He’s not going to find any.

Jaskier hums, dimly thinking that now he sounds like Geralt. Their positions are reversed. He tries to laugh, but is too tired for it. With a great deal of effort he manages to slur, “Very good. Perfect.”

The relief on Geralt’s face is something Jaskier would write lyrics about, if he had the wit for it at the moment. Hopefully he’ll remember in the morning.

Geralt undoes the cuffs, gently massaging Jaskier’s wrists and ankles, and Jaskier is only dimly aware of being cleaned up after that. He’s just… floating, in a way he’s never done before. It’s glorious.

Finished pampering Jaskier to his satisfaction (including fluffing the pillows and rearranging the blankets like he’s building a nest, which is frankly adorable and one of those details that Jaskier will never put into a song because it’s for him and him alone), Geralt curls up around him, drawing Jaskier into him and pressing his face to the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier clumsily wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, not as coordinated as usual, but that’s all right. Geralt is holding him, rubbing his back, and he knows that Geralt can smell the satisfaction on him. “When can we do that ‘gain?” he slurs.

Geralt chuckles. “Not for a while.”

“But can we?” He rubs his face into Geralt’s hair. “You liked it. I saw.”

Geralt drops a kiss into the hollow of his throat. “Yes. And I did.”

He feels empty, bereft, but also satisfied, more satisfied than anything else, and that’s what seeps into his bones as he falls asleep, Geralt’s hands warm and safe spanning the width of his back, grounding his every breath.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Inhale, Pause, (Lose Your Mind), Exhale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548336) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)




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